


I'd Choose You

by FelicityGS



Series: That Slightly Less Problematic ABO Verse with Not Gross Social Dynamics [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Brother Feels, Consent, Family Secrets, Finding home, Frottage, I HAVE A THING FOR THE HAIR THING, M/M, Masturbation, Medical Malpractice, Omega Verse, Pack Dynamics, TONY STARK RESPECTS AND APPRECIATES PEOPLE'S SEXUALITIES, aka the most awkward and guilty masturbation scene i've ever written, but yeah, consensual make outs are so much better, finding where you belong, hormones are literally no excuse and do not override personal preference, i forgot that tag, i mean loki's an adult and possibly more mentally mature than tony sometimes, i will scream that one from the rooftops until it sinks into people's heads, if that isn't clear yet, it's what makes us beautiful, non binary, non binary sexes, the hair thing, we're more than animals darling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:36:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelicityGS/pseuds/FelicityGS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At twenty-one, he watches on the news as New York is half-destroyed. Aliens. Who knew.</p><p>They--the Avengers, people say--fight like a proper pack. It’s interesting. Loki’s never belonged anywhere, and he won’t belong in a fight.</p><p>(He only holds his breath when he sees Stark fly through the portal. There’s time, but there won’t be if Stark dies before Loki bothers to meet him.)</p><p>Stark doesn’t die. </p><p>Loki eats a spoonful of half-melted ice cream, closing his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Verbyna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbyna/gifts).



> Part of the many assorted goodies I reserved for the 12 days of Christmas. :3 This one is a gift for [Verbyna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbyna)\--thank you so much. I feel like we've known each other so briefly but so long at once, and I look forward so much to whatever madness we cook up between us in the future.
> 
> For all intents and purposes, the events of both Iron Man 1 & 2 have occurred, with minor alterations in regards to Pepper and Tony's relationship. There's a reason Loki gets in a hurry.
> 
>  **Notes:** everyone has their own ideas for a/b/o fics, so let's get mine clear:
> 
>   * Sex is defined as alpha, beta, or omega. Everyone externally looks the same in regards to genitalia, but only betas and omegas can actually give birth. 
>   * Gender is how a person identifies, and a hold over. People present as whatever they want; everyone else asks what pronouns they prefer when they're asking what names are and exchanging greetings. It's very chillax. 
>   * actually this is a very happy place with lots of noncreeptastic societal norms because i wanted to write something _happy just this once_
> 

> 
> Aaaand that should be all you really need to know.

 

_And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you._

_\--the chaos of stars, kiersten white_

**I.**

He overhears at a party (snuck into) that Stark is looking for a new personal assistant. Rather, Potts is looking for Stark’s new personal assistant as she’s certainly too busy these days.

Loki, nearly finished with university, considers.

(He’s always loved a nice change, and two years seems a lifetime when there’s so much left to _do_.)

“Loki,” his mother says gently, the same as she has every time he mentions switching careers, “consider your heart.”

The next day, he ensures that Pepper Potts has his resume directly.

 

***

That time, he doesn’t get called beyond the first interview.

He doesn’t mind. He’s twenty, then, there’s plenty to explore in the world outside the sphere of super heroes like Iron Man.

He has a pharmacy degree, like his mother; Frigga wants him to have a nice, safe career. Low stress.

Pharmacies are dull, routine.

Loki is twenty. He tells his mother he’s thinking of changing tracks.

“Already?” she asks, disappointed. Odin snorts, in the background; no doubt his father knows what they’re talking about.

“Perhaps a model,” Loki says, paging through a magazine.

“Consider your heart,” Frigga says, as she always has.

Loki does not tell her he is, because they mean different things--she means _careful_ and he hears _fly_.

(There are reasons he’s never belonged to them, even if they raised him.)

 

***

Modeling is interesting. It isn’t what he wants (not heroes and their lives), but it fills the hollowness for a while.

He makes good money--not as much as the omegas do, he’s only a beta and has little interest in sex, but he makes enough to be content. Clothes, food, a roof--what else is there to want?

In the time between shoots, he writes chemical equations the way coworkers scrawl poetry (on napkins, on corners of torn off paper). One day, he might bother to go to a lab and see if they smell like he imagines, just like they’ll publish.

One day.

 

***

At twenty-one, he watches on the news as New York is half-destroyed. Aliens. Who knew.

They--the Avengers, people say--fight like a proper pack. It’s interesting. Loki’s never belonged anywhere, and he won’t belong in a fight.

(He only holds his breath when he sees Stark fly through the portal. There’s time, but there won’t be if Stark dies before Loki bothers to meet him.)

Stark doesn’t die.

Loki eats a spoonful of half-melted ice cream, closing his eyes.

 

***

He should be shocked. Heart-broken. The rest of the world is. Loki watches, listens to the other models, to make up artists, to fashion designers. Everyone is shocked.

(Loki takes three pills each morning.

One.

Two.

Three.

Sometimes feeling nothing is as easy as counting.)

 

***

Loki could never explain to anyone why he wants to meet Stark, not even himself.

“Why would you like to work with him?” Pepper asks, not looking up from his resume.

Loki is twenty-two. He has all the time in the world, except if Stark gets himself killed. Meeting Stark, knowing him--that is an experience with a deadline.

“I like a challenge,” Loki says instead. Confident.

Pepper snorts.

“He’s certainly that.” She looks up at him. “You’ve never been a single SI show or any of his talks. No autographs, no record of ever working with SI or for one of our contractors, no stalking. Not a single party, though with your family you could have.”

He isn’t phased by her knowledge; he expected her to be thorough.

“I’m not a fan,” Loki says with a smile and a shrug. “Only looking to change careers.”

That much, he knows, is true.

“He’s going to hit on you relentlessly.”

“I’m a model,” Loki says, amused. “When am I not cat-called?”

 

***

Three interviews.

One.

Two.

Three.

(Sometimes satisfaction is as easy as counting to three.)

 

***

“Who the fuck is this?” Stark asks. He’s surrounded by machines, covered in grease, and yet Loki can still smell him--alpha, iron, electric. Loki can hardly keep his eyes off him, but he at least can keep his lids heavy so it isn’t as obvious he’s staring.

“This is your new personal assistant,” Pepper announces. Loki offers a slim smile and his hand.

“He’s a fucking kid,” Starks says, entirely ignoring Loki.

Loki doesn’t take it personally. Growing up with Thor, one gets used to being ignored, talked over and around. He puts his hand in his pocket, watches Pepper and Stark argue, until eventually Pepper triumphs and Loki is left standing in the middle of lab, one hand in his pocket, other on his bag.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” Stark asks, eyes narrowing. His hair, Loki notes, has a touch of gray at the temples--the press never catches that. Stark is only thirty-five, but then, he’s also Iron Man.

“Dior,” Loki says.

“Not your clothes,” Stark says.

Loki blinks, widens his eyes innocently.

(Stark wants to know the cologne--none on the market can entirely hide a scent. Loki’s isn’t on the market, nor is it a cologne.)

“Whatever do you mean, Mr. Stark?”

 

***

Working for Stark is…

 _sentimental_. The kind of foolishness that he accuses Thor of. He wants to say his heart has beat for the first time--but that sounds like he stole it from one of his former colleagues napkins.

Worse, though, is it’s _true_ , and he can’t place _why_. Stark’s hardly the first alpha Loki has ever interacted with; he’s loud, obnoxious, stubborn, entirely a Leo (though Loki puts little stock in astrology, particularly since Stark is actually a Gemini). There is _always_ somewhere new to be, a new flavour of insanity, a new sight to see, new inventions.

(Worst, the physical attraction. Loki can count how many people he’s wanted to touch on one hand. Utterly foreign.)

Loki takes his pills, wonders when they stopped being able to restrain his emotions, and _soars_.

 

***

“He’s an alpha,” Natasha says, certain. It’s poker night for the team, a bonding exercise Bruce has been excused from since before Loki began working with them.

Steve frowns, brows dipping together. Loki is tipsy enough to want to smooth them out again, a model enough to be concerned about wrinkles, and both enough to be willing to say so.

“No,” Steve says, but he isn’t certain.

“Well he’s not an omega,” Clint says, throwing a chip into the center of the table. He is certain.

“I’d kill for the cologne you wear,” Natasha tells Loki as Clint and Steve continue talking circles around what, exactly, they think Loki is. Loki takes another sip of his drink; he holds his alcohol poorly, but then a lifetime sober does that.

(He shouldn’t be drinking-- _consider your heart_ \--but this feels too much like _belonging_ to pass up.)

“He’s a beta,” Stark announces suddenly, tossing his cards on the table and standing. He’s been quiet since the topic came up; Loki glances up, meeting his eyes across the table. “It’s in his medical records.”

“You’re no fun,” Clint complains.

“It’s stupid anyway,” Stark says. “We aren’t animals. What does it matter?”

“Did you know,” Loki asks, licking his lips on purpose, noting with delight that Stark’s eyes flick down to follow the motion. “Did you know that omegas easily make ten to twenty thousand more than other models?”

“Modeling’s an outlier,” Stark says. “And you knew it going in.”

“I did,” Loki agrees. He leans onto the elbow, propping his chin in his hand. He swirls his drink around, smiling, and takes another sip. He feels _wonderful_.

How odd.

Stark snorts, breaking their gaze. Pity--he wanted more time to look.

“I’m out. No one call if something blows up.” He pauses, points at Loki. “Especially you.”

Clint waits until Stark is gone before he leans over.

“I think he likes you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is absolutely, one hundred percent _fucked._

**II**.

He is absolutely, one hundred percent _fucked_.

Pepper, standing next to the--the-- _kid_ , is smiling, triumphant, like she knows it. Of course she knows it. She probably hand-picked him herself.

Fuck.

***

Tony has a type--leggy, mouthy, and smart. Most people expect him to say something else, but Tony doesn’t care at all what sex they are--alpha, beta, _or_ omega. He’s just more careful about Os, because the only constant to any of his relationships--if a one night stand can be called that--is consent.

(Good time or not, there’s a line a mile wide between sex with someone who wants it and sex with someone whose biology has decided to fuck them over. Literally.)

***

The problem is Loki. Loki who has legs a mile long, a mouth that can keep up with Tony when he’s feeling sassy, and smart enough that Tony is about 89.9% sure that Loki has managed a modern miracle of a cologne that entirely erases his scent.

Tony knows at least four people off the top of his head who would kill for the recipe, and he’s one of them.

Genius--how Pepper found him is beyond him.

***

Tony reminds himself, daily, that Loki has a background that suggests he’s _probably_ asexual and is _thirteen years younger than him_.

Besides, they have a working relationship, Tony is absolutely not ruining another working relationship by making it something more (see: Pepper, though that might be a bad example on second thought). He might comply a little more easily than normal because Loki has a nice smile--when he lets himself smile--but ultimately there is absolutely _nothing_ happening.

Exactly according to plan.

Then there’s poker night, everyone arguing about what Loki is, Loki all blurred smiles and utterly drunk (actual kid, can’t even hold his liquor--doesn’t he have a heart condition? should he even be drinking?), and Tony can’t stand the way they’re talking about what sex Loki is, like it’s just a _thing_ , like _Loki’s_ a _thing_ and not actually there.

Stupid goddamned hormones. He should have kept his mouth closed.

It’s entirely downhill from there.

***

“Mr. Stark, apologies, let me just—”

Tony tries desperately not to watch Loki bend over to grab the wrench that Tony is sure Loki knocked off on purpose. He fails. Loki has an absolutely _amazing_ ass.

Fuck.

Loki’s talking, and here’s Tony trying to deal with being half-hard and totally tuning him out in favour of a wisp of hair that’s fallen out of place. He doesn’t think--he pushes it behind Loki’s ear.

Loki stops talking, staring at Tony like he’s lost his mind. Tony isn’t sure he hasn’t, then realizes he’s never actually seen Loki touch anyone, let alone be touched.

“Could scratch your eyes,” Tony says. “Lab hazard.”

“Mm.” Loki is still watching him, green eyes half-lidded. Loki does that when he’s thinking. Great. Tony is totally transparent. Dum-e would be smoother than he’s being right now.

Except he’s not doing anything. Absolutely.

(Right.)

“You have an appointment in thirty minutes with the board and Ms. Potts,” Loki says, then turns and _struts_ out of the lab. For someone he can’t smell, Loki sure doesn’t have any problems turning him on. It must be extra hotness to make up for the lack of scent. Minus that bit where Loki’s just wearing a cologne to hide his scent, which throws that right out the window. “Mr. Stark.”

 _Model_ , Tony reminds himself as he pulls his gaze up from Loki’s ass. Loki’s smirking, one eyebrow raised.

“Twenty-nine minutes, Mr. Stark.”

***

Tony is tactile. Apparently somewhere in this trainwreck that is him refusing to pin Loki to a table and fuck his brains out, Loki figured it out. Loki doesn’t touch anyone else on the team (even though the traitors have decided Loki’s part of the pack)(even though Loki is oblivious they've decided he's pack), but he’s certainly brushing against Tony all the time--which means _now_ Loki’s doing it on purpose.

“I thought I said _no fans_ ,” Tony says to Pepper, because her office might be one of the only places he’s sure Loki won’t follow.

(That’s a lie. There’s a lot of places. Tony just tends not to go to them, because there’s a part of his mind that really just wants to know how far Loki’s going to push. So far, just close--for all Loki knows how to move, he’s got no idea what to _do_ , and Tony has to fight how both endearing and attractive he finds the combination.)

“He’s not,” Pepper says without looking up. Tony thinks about hating her for a moment, then Loki’s knocking at the door and sticking his head in.

“Press conference,” he says. “I did try to call.”

“You planned this,” Tony accuses, pointing at Pepper. Pepper only tucks her hair behind her ear, smiling, but she doesn’t look up.

***

The absolute worst thing, the point where Tony realizes that he’s not just fucked, he’s _fucked_ , is when Loki gets hit by the bullet meant for Tony at the press conference--a crystalline moment Loki crumples.

After that, it’s just rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fourth day of chrimmus is for cliff-hangers


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go dark and soft at the edges, and Loki welcomes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merr Chrimmus! because it's the day we're doing a double update~
> 
> (there are no rings on this fifth day of chrimmus, but hopefully where there is will be okay)

**III**.

At twenty-three, Loki wakes up entirely sure he is dying. When he tries to move, he finds he can’t--panic chokes him, bright and static. He feels like he’s going to burst into flame.

“--here, going to a hospital—” There’s a hand on his face, covering his eyes. A smell--alpha, iron, electric. Tony. “He’s burning up, can we go any faster, Jesus f—”

Things go dark and soft at the edges, and Loki welcomes it.

***

The second time he wakes, he hurts less. Feels less. Feels normal, other than a distant pain across his ribs. Loki hasn’t woken in many hospitals, certainly never in this position; vaguely, he can smell Tony.

He opens his eyes. He isn’t strapped down, but he’s in a hospital gown, surrounded by noise. There are bandages over his chest. Numb. He can barely feel the sheets, barely feel much of anything, and a hand finds the IV in his arm, traces over it.

Ah.

He wonders what day it is as he looks over the room; the door is shut. That--seems odd. He can’t place why. He’s shivering, but he feels hot, fire devouring him from the inside, and he’s soaked in sweat.

There are people talking, outside. One of them is, he thinks, Tony.

How comforting.

(Except, eyes closing again, it is.)

***

The third time he wakes, he realizes that before wasn’t dying, before was a reminder not to jump to conclusions.

 _This_ is dying.

He’s in a hospital and he has no idea why no one is doing anything, why no one has noticed, because someone has to have by now. There’s so much noise, so many _smells_ \--antiseptic, laundry detergent, food, medicine, arousal, Tony-- _Tony_ —

Loki moans, turning his face into the smell on the pillow, one hand fumbling to get beneath the sheets and his gown. He can’t roll over without pain flaring in his ribs _worse_ , but it’s dull next to the ache between his thighs. He’s hard, his thighs are soaked--the smell, it’s his, he doesn’t think he’s _ever_ felt—

 _aroused_ , he thinks (wouldn’t know), but the word is slippery, already fading, other hand clutching the pillow by his head. He’s gasping for air, whining, every time his fingers brush where his cock and cunt join is _bliss_ , there’s a whiff of iron-electric- _alpha_ when he breathes in and he’s sliding a finger inside, another, thumb hooked over the top of his cock and grinding down as he presses his hand up inside himself, slick and wet and _hot_ until he comes with a groan, clenching around his fingers and splattering across his belly.

For a moment, he can breathe raggedly, relaxing against the bed. His ribs hurt. His mouth is dry. He’s shaking.

He’s still hard. There’s still warmth swirling beneath his skin, still focused where he hasn’t bothered to uncurl his hand from himself, threatening to flare up again--will flare up again. _Aroused_ , he thinks, dazed, opening his eyes. Horribly, overwhelmingly aroused.

***

Sometimes, all it takes is counting to three to come entirely undone.

Bruce sits in front of him on a bed that reeks of _Loki_ , not looking up, hands twisting and playing over a pen that looks like it has seen better days. Loki watches him dully, listens.

He should be shocked. He should scream, be angry.

The pen in Bruce’s hand shatters, ink splattering over his hands. Bruce is angry enough for them both; Loki closes his eyes and leans his head back.

(He should be afraid that Bruce will change.)

“I see,” Loki says. His voice is hoarse. Apparently he screams, more often than not; at least the last few days have been an informative education on what he never experienced as a teenager.

“I need to go,” Bruce says, voice a low growl. “Do you need anything?”

Of course Bruce is angry--medical malpractice _would_ get under the doctor’s skin.

“Home,” Loki says.

***

Tony doesn’t step foot in the hospital room while Loki is conscious. Tony doesn’t appear when Loki is discharged. There are no texts, no phone calls, no cards, no flowers.

Nothing.

Loki can’t say he minds.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony puts up with the surgery he can’t get near by doctors he doesn’t know. He’s paranoid (of course he is), but he can deal with it (doesn't have a choice).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the double update; in case you missed that the other chapter went up!
> 
> Merr Chrimmus and a happy 5th day of chrimmus to you all~

**IV**.

Tony doesn’t kill anyone.

(This may be because Happy grabbed him before he could.)

He does get in the ambulance with Loki because like fuck is he letting Loki out of his sight right now. There’s blood all over him, but Tony can’t smell anything uniquely Loki. He distracts himself by thinking about Loki’s cologne--probably not a cologne, probably a drug, ingestible. Idiot, testing it on himself.

Loki wakes, once, panicking. Tony tells Loki they’re going to a hospital, that he’s okay, covering Loki’s eyes. He had a cat that used to work on, when it was upset; it’s stupid, but he can’t think of anything else to do. He’s fucking terrible at this.

Loki inhales (smells) and goes still.

***

Tony puts up with the surgery he can’t get near by doctors he doesn’t know. He’s paranoid (of course he is), but he can deal with it (doesn't have a choice). He fills out forms, fills out more forms.

It doesn’t pass nearly enough time.

He waits. He paces. People recognize them and he blows them off entirely.

Steve calls—”The police want you to come ID the shooter”--and doesn’t immediately try calling back when Tony hangs up on him. Tony should take it as a sign, a need to reign in.

He just paces more.

***

The first thing, when he _finally_ gets to see Loki (took long enough), is _smell_. He’s never smelled Loki before. Dark, almost like bitter chocolate. Absolutely mouth-watering, no wonder he invented a drug to turn himself scentless. Loki’s still unconscious from the surgery. Tony listens halfway as the doctor tells Tony how lucky Loki is, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

(He realizes later he’s sitting between Loki and the door, unconscious alpha hormonal bullshit, but fuck if he’s going to move.)

It’s three in the afternoon.

People stop coming in and out every two seconds. He starts to think he might be able to breathe again.

***

Tony wakes up hard (common) with a crick in his neck (also common) not sure where he is (uncommon, mostly). Loki’s skin under his hand is warm; Tony sits up, stretching, eyeing Loki, the light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Tony leans over to hit the nurse call button--what if the wound got infected ( _then_ Tony’s going to _murder_ —

Loki whines, head tossing in his sleep and exposing his throat. Tony stops, hand hovering over the button.

(He _knows_ that whine--not from Loki, no, but--)

Tony inhales through his nose, smelling. Musk, that almost chocolate smell, near floral hothouse heat-- _warmth_ and _take_ , Loki murmuring in his sleep, uncomfortable, sheets rustling, _aroused_ —

Tony nearly knocks the chair over bolting out of the room, slamming the door behind himself. He hates himself for it, hates (more) that he wants to go back in there, sight of Loki’s throat as he tossed his head still fresh in his mind (wants to bite and mark and—). He’s shaking as he gets Jarvis on the line, hand white knuckled around the door knob, hating that he can’t quite let go

(that _smell_ , and it’s _Loki_ , Loki he already wants, Loki who’s been pushing, it’ll be alright, absolutely, not like Loki will—

“Sir?” Jarvis asks.

“I need side effects of the drugs the hospital has Loki on.”

"Would you like interactions of his heart medications as well?"

Right. He forgot--Loki usually takes another set at noon, doesn't he?

"Shoot."

Jarvis lists of a string of side effects, all minor for Bs. None of them should do… whatever the fuck is going on.

(He’s not doing anything. He’s not a fucking animal.)

He forces himself to let go of the doorknob, but leans against the door because like _hell_ is he letting anyone else in there right now.

“What about for the other sexes? Commonalities, known interactions, that sort of thing.” It’s a long shot, doubtful. It might just be whatever cocktail Loki’s cooked up to hide his scent—

(Musk, almost chocolate, sinful and subtle, _dark_ \--it wouldn’t hurt just to--

“--suppressing heats.”

“Stop, run that by me again.”

“All three of Mr. Borson's heart medications are known to have the adverse effect of suppressing heats. Mr. Borson was started on them when he was eleven years old; his records indicate he was brought in for a high fever. Shortly after the incident, his heart condition was discovered.”

Tony doesn’t say anything, arousal momentarily forgotten in shock. He barely remembers sex ed, but he knows enough Os to know how fucking _stupid_ it is to not go into heat on occasion. Before puberty, though? He can’t even fathom what that would _do_ to a person.

“Discovered my ass, get Bruce on the line, Jarvis, this is exactly why I don’t trust doctors, you know that, I’m not fucking letting anyone else--Bruce, great, I need you here _yesterday_ , yes, it’s about Loki, I’ll tell you when you’re here, bring your happy thoughts.” He stops, staring at the door.

(He could go in. It’s not like—)

He takes a step back, turning away so the door is behind him.

“You aren’t going to like this.”

***

“Loki’s an omega,” Bruce says. He’s got his tea, he’s staring at the hallway floor. He stops. He breathes in, pauses, breathes out.

Tony doesn’t interrupt because despite popular opinion he does have a sense of self preservation.

“Loki,” Bruce repeats, almost like a mantra, voice zoned, “is an omega. He’s positive for every test for a preteen with heat fever.” Another pause, another breath in, another breath out. “You know the ones.”

“False positive?” Tony asks. Bs get false heats, sometimes; it’s why everyone always waits for that second heat before official declarations of sex.

(He doesn’t have much hope. He _knows_ that smell. False heats just... _lack_ something, a topcoat without a base primer.)

“Doubtful. We’ll know for sure in a few weeks. Probably sooner.” Bruce waits a moment, takes a sip of his tea. His hands are shaking, slightly. “He doesn’t have a heart condition, Tony.”

Tony doesn’t say anything, just stares at his phone.

(He wants to break—)

“I see,” Tony says. He forces a smile. “Good thing we got his back, huh?”

***

Tony stays away. He let Loki push into his spaces before; he’ll let him push now. It’s not like Loki’s shy.

***

Loki sends an email a day after he’s discharged with a letter of resignation attached.

Tony replies with a different offer—trips anywhere he wants and indefinite medical leave

He can’t talk to him, but he can make sure Loki knows he’s still got a place. He's still pack.

***

A week later, Loki accepts--not by email, but with a one-way ticket to Tuscany on Tony’s personal credit card.

(Tony sleeps for the first time in a week without waking up murderous.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Handful of notes:
> 
>   * Omegas are the only ones who go into actual heat. 
>   * They're also the only sex that can't impregnate another. 
>   * Betas occasionally get false heats when they hit puberty; it's even rarer to get them later in life. 
>   * Tony says alpha hormonal bullshit because he has a Ph. D. in denial. Sitting between Loki and the door (aka people coming in) is more just him. (The reaction to the Loki's heat, on the other hand, is a combination of Tony's personal feelings and hormones. Tony's stance of them not meaning he should take advantage of Loki though he wants to is the commonly accepted one) 
>   * Because it's difficult to tell pre-puberty and the hormones kicking in, sex isn't declared until the person hits puberty. Seeing as everyone holds sex entirely separate from gender identity (and in fact neither construct has any of the same vocab), this isn't as big a deal as you'd think. 
>   * there's pretty excellent required sex ed taught to everyone--required as part of the health courses, and started early since puberty tends to happen for everyone at different times. everyone would have a general idea of how things work for everyone else (even tho most people tend to forget more than the basics beyond their own sex unless they have a reason not to)
> 

> 
> I swear I'm done rambling about all this. For now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki blinks, realizes he hasn’t spoken to Thor in years. An argument he barely remembers, reasoning burned away with everything else he used to know about himself.
> 
> Loki hangs up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaah, I just wanted to say I've been absolutely blown away by the response to this fic. So thank you, everyone, really really. It's been such a lovely surprise!

**V**.

He feels…. _raw_. A nerve left exposed to ice and wind, salted regularly to keep things painful.

_Everything_. He feels everything.

***

The worst--second worst, if he’s honest--are the _smells_. Even in Tuscany, hidden in the countryside, he can’t escape how _sensitive_ his nose is. It’s harder, now, everyone’s always said omegas have the sharpest noses, but he’s never _believed_ it.

(Bruce says, when he complains in an email, that he’ll get used to it. Bruce left off the ‘probably’ caused by how little they know about what his decade delayed heats will _do_ \--of course he did. Optimistic.

Loki doesn’t have any optimism left to give.)

***

The worst are the heats--if the new normal is emotional rawness, heats still (somehow) manage to be _more_ _._

He tried heat suppressants, over the counter mild things, as soon as he got to Tuscany and the safety of no one knowing to keep them away; his body revolted, sensation refused to return to its box, and he spent half the day vomiting and dry heaving before the stress sparked another fire in his veins.

(Three days, that time.)

Stress-- _help_ and _protect_ , nothing like hormones to make sure some big strong alpha or alpha-leaning beta will want to fuck him senseless. Sex for protection.

Loki loathes it. He's managed quite well on his own, and this feel like helplessness. Funny how his heart condition didn't feel as much a burden despite the carefully attended diet and lifestyle.

(But worse than _having_ heats is how _unpredictable_ they are, and the knowledge that nearly a decade suppressed means they always will be.

He doesn't let himself think about it, which is why smells are only second worst, not third.)

***

Loki can't bear whatever stilted conversation will be waiting with Tony, and so doesn't bother contacting him.

(More, can't bear the thought perhaps there _won't_ be one, that Tony will proceed as if nothing has changed when in truth the world has turned inside out.)

He proves he's alive and fakes being well, when he can (when another heat hasn't left him sprawled on the floor, shaking too much to do much more than crawl). Takes day trips and buys things on Tony’s credit card he shouldn’t still have--postcards and art replicas for Steve, handmade tea sets for Bruce, shoes for Pepper, entire wardrobes for Natasha, photography equipment for Clint, small batch craft beers for Rhodey.

For Tony, he buys non-SI tech (a running joke), but he never manages to send it back. It feels too much like an admission, and he has no idea what he would be admitting to.

***

A week after the second spending spree, there’s a knock at the house he’s renting. Loki freezes, caught, nevermind no one can see where he’s pressed his face into his towel, absorbed in the smell of his shampoo because it takes his mind off how _hot_ he is, cucumber and mint better than the warm damp between his thighs that promises the next few days will be a blur.

(Two weeks and three days since his last heat, but they’re starting to get farther apart. _Finally_. If Bruce had been wrong about this--)

It’s a delivery. They’re standing outside, waiting, so it needs to be signed for. The office will hold it three days, but he’s still not figured out the rhythm of his heats, and three days might see him still lost.

Better the beginning, now, then the end, exhausted; some day he’s going to have to deal with people while like this and best to get it done with.

(What if--his body has betrayed him so many ways, already--he aches, he wants _so much_ like this-- _what if_ —)

He draws his robe closer, drapes the towel around his neck, and answers the door before they can leave.

“Delivery for Loki Bors…” The delivery person looks up, nose flaring (they present as a she--Sig.ra Conti on the name badge). Loki locks up, staring at her (she’s nearly eye level, she’s broader than him, dark eyes and dark hair), he can smell her (lemon, clean, _alpha_ ) and he _aches,_ this was a _terrible_ idea and he can’t quite remember why, watches as she swallows.

(He should step back, he _wants_ \--brown eyes, glinted with amber, like—)

“Delivery,” she says. She’s got a flat mailer--a letter, contract, something ridiculous, Tony likely-- _Tony_.

He clears his throat. It’s not half as effective as he wants, his tongue is still slow, tarnished, he’s still gone from half to full-blown arousal, but he snags the mailer from her.

“You need to sign for it,” she says carefully.

“Right.” He can’t quite look away from her. Her eyes--her eyes are lovely, all ambers and golds, deep browns, eyes that look like a home he hasn’t had would feel (if he let it), he dreams of the colour, falling in it, curling up in it, _safe_ , he wants—

She touches his arm; his heart jolts, rabbit fear, and in the next moment he has her pressed to the door frame and her arm pinned behind her, twisted so if she moves too much she’ll dislocate her shoulder (like Natasha taught), instinctive and panicked. He shakes; he barely remembers moving.

(Confused, because everything in him _aches_ for someone between his thighs, and yet—)

She’s talking--apologies, as he manages to slow his breathing enough to _hear_ again.

He steps away, lets go, cheeks and tips of his ears flaming with embarrassment instead of arousal (this time). He feels awkward, like when he was first growing into his height (isn’t he doing the same now?), still shamefully hard and wet, but she smiles at him, one hand up, other with the packaging tracker she needs him to sign.

“I just need you to sign,” she says again. “You weren’t listening, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t--I—” Loki closes his mouth, takes the stylus and quickly signs his name. “I’m sorry.”

“It happens.” She smiles again. She bends down, picks the mailer Loki dropped up, and offers it to him. “Have a good day.”

***

When he’s halfway through a bottle of wine, valiantly ignoring his body, he thinks to open the mailer.

It’s a credit card.

Specifically, it’s a credit card with both his and Tony’s name on it.

(Rationally, he knows that this will avoid awkward questions about why he has Stark’s credit card.)

He can’t finish the rest of the bottle fast enough as low flame turns to absolute fire; he stumbles back to the kitchen for a second. It’s most of a day before he wakes up hungover on the bedroom floor, covered in slick and come, vibrators and assorted toys shoved into a pile by the foot of the bed.

(Wakes up utterly content, languid. Not like he’s only delayed the inevitable.)

Now that he can think clearly, he realizes he didn’t spread his legs for the first alpha he saw while in heat. Actually pushed away when touched--perhaps extremely, but he did, and no one was hurt. Natasha might even be proud she’d drilled the move in enough that he did it on instinct. Something to tell her. He’s almost willing to _smile_.

(Not the same as he was, but…)

Then he finds his phone.

***

Naturally the first thing he should do on discovering he’d sent a string of drunken, heat-induced pictures to Ton-- _Stark_ of the various vibrators he’s acquired since he left is call Thor.

(inquiring how it _compared_ to--he wants to _die_ , he’s never wanted to simply _vanish_ so much in his entire _life_ \--it seems even his mortification will be magnified tenfold)

( _worst_ \--what his contentment and short heat _implies_ —)

“‘lo,” Thor mumbles.

“ _How did you know_?” Loki demands, voice low and rough, cracking, because _Thor_ will know. He can’t see clearly, he’s blinking back tears-- _fucking hormones_ , but he hears it in Tony’s voice, the way Tony growls it, and a hysterical sob hitches his throat.

(He’s _ruined_ , he’s not supposed to _feel_ this much, how do people _live_ like this)

“Loki?” Thor says.

Loki blinks, realizes he hasn’t spoken to Thor in years. An argument he barely remembers, reasoning burned away with everything else he used to know about himself.

Loki hangs up.

Thor calls back.

“ _Loki_ ,” Thor says when Loki answers. ”Loki,” Thor says, desperate, “Loki, how did I know what?”

“How—” his voice breaks.

(Voice admits possibility.)

He sits down by the back bay windows and pulls his knees to his chest. He’s going to cry. He’s fully grown, and he’s going to _cry_ over an _alpha_ to his _brother_. Like every trashy teen novel he’s ever read.

(Every trashy teen novel he’s never understood.)

Even shaming himself isn’t working.

“Brother,” Thor says. Pleads.

Loki doesn’t say anything. He should ask. It would make sense, it’s why he called, Thor would know the answer--just like he always used to when Loki was so much younger. Thor’s had his people since… forever, it feels. Sif and Jane, the people they brought with them.

(It was always Loki who didn’t belong; it’s never _mattered_ before.)

“Brother,” Thor near whispers, “what happened? I saw on the news when you were shot but…”

He should hang up again--neither of these topics are ones he wants to discuss, neither will let him claw his way back to some semblance of control.

Most of all, he shouldn’t tell Thor… anything. He hasn’t spoken to him in years.

(He’s so… _frightened_. Sick and angry and overwhelmed. He feels… everything.)

“I….” He trails off. “It’s late, there, isn’t it? Go back to bed. It’s nothing.” He laughs. “I shouldn’t have called.”

“Tell me,” Thor says.

(Stable. Bedrock. _Thor_.)

Loki starts talking.

***

“You’re going to call me sentimental,” Thor says when Loki finally finishes, when Loki finally asks _how did you know you belonged with them_.

“When do I not?” He’s a little hoarse now, but at least he’s stopped crying. By the time he got to telling Thor about the texts that inspired his… panic, they both were laughing. He’s still horrified, of course he is, but it… hurts less. To hear Thor laugh--Thor has always laughed with him, always waited for Loki to laugh first.

(Even emotional, he can notice these things. Another self-truth that hasn’t changed.)

Thor chuckles.

“True. But you will.”

“It can’t be any worse than--than—”

“The Stark fiasco of ‘13,” Thor suggests.

“How uncreative.”

“Then you think of something better! Now let me finish, I’m going to answer you.” Thor pauses, takes a breath. “I just… I knew. I think everyone does. I read about this--research papers, journals, don’t act shocked. No one knows, really, but people are good at finding--At ending up where they need to be.”

“You’re right, this is horribly sentimental. I thought you didn’t believe in fate.”

“I don’t! But I think people know. I think it’s easier, after the hormones kick in, but even people who never have that manage to end up with a pack. Did you know that? One percent of the population never registers as omega, beta, _or_ alpha, but every study finds that they’ve found people they belong with--even if they don’t get the dynamics, even if it’s usually later than everyone else. They’ve all got people. I think people see the people they need, they get to them, and…”

“And?”

“And they’re there. They just… _fit_.”

“That’s--the Avengers didn’t just _fit_ , Thor.”

“You cannot tell me that the original Avengers included _an archer_ and a _super spy babe_.”

“Her name is Natasha,” Loki says, icy.

“See? That’s my point, though. Sometimes stuffs got to happen, but I’ve seen footage of them fighting, at press conferences. They fit, Loki, everyone can see it. The right people had the right things happen, and they got where they belong.”

“Why do you _know_ all this?” Loki asks.

“You,” Thor says. “I wanted to know you’d find people, because you stopped fitting with me.”

“I—” Loki swallows what threatens to be more tears. “I never fit with you, Thor.”

“You did once. When we were little. You weren’t ever the same after—” Thor pauses. “Do you want me there when you talk to them?”

“What?”

“Our parents. You are going to ask them, aren’t you?”

Loki opens his mouth, stops.

“I don’t know,” he admits, quietly. “I haven’t… Thor, I can barely make it through a week without getting blindingly angry anymore. I’d give someone a heart attack.”

“If you want me there—”

“Yes, yes, you’ll be there. Sentimental dog.”

“If you don’t want to ask them—”

“Thor,” Loki says, exasperation slipping through. He expects an argument--wouldn’t they always argue about what Loki wouldn’t do?--but Thor only goes quiet, near thoughtful. “Thor, don’t hurt yourself thinking, I can hear it from here.”

“The phone is right next to my head.”

“So it is,” Loki says. “I’m surprised you caught that so quickly.”

***

He doesn’t call Frigga or Odin, though he considers it after his conversation with Thor.

(Right until he throws a glass against the wall.)

He wants to know _why_. He needs to know, but they’ve both taken so much already, built him into a pyre that will burn all the better for their work.

He won’t give them the benefit of his hurt or his anger. They never wanted it anyway, did they?

Holding his head in hands, he smirks, slightly. _Consider your heart_ \--it’s what his mother would say, when his temper would flare before. He wonders what she’d say now.

***

At twenty-three and a half, he watches the Avengers stop Von Doom.

This time, he holds his breath.

This time, Steve has to sling Tony’s arm over his shoulders, half-carrying him back.

He sits, curled up on the couch, a white knuckled grip on one of the throw pillows. He takes a breath. A second. A third.

He thinks it might be time for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sig.ra is short for Signora, which is why Loki knows the delivery person prefers female pronouns
> 
> Thor's roughly 9 hours behind Loki right now in time zones. It's 3 am for Thor when Loki calls.
> 
> We'll see that 'fit' thing brought up again. I just wanted to point out it's part the how people talk about packs, and it is not inherently romantic.
> 
> (And yes. While our world is very much _not_ the one I'm writing, I do believe everything Thor says about us finding the people we need, the people we fit with. Maybe it's chance, maybe it takes longer, but I sincerely believe that the internet has made it easier than ever to find the people that better us, that we _understand_ and who understand _us_. Writing his speech to Loki was one of the most sincere things I wrote this entire story--I've seen too much and had too many people at just the right place and just the right time that have kept me holding on, who have been exactly what I needed right then, to not.
> 
> Which isn't to say I'm not finding a pattern where there's none, because I believe more in random chance than fate, but just...
> 
> It would be awfully nice, wouldn't it?)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony does _not_ take it personally when Loki sends everyone on the team presents except for him.
> 
> Absolutely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaa we are at the _end_ lovelies. It's been a wonderful ride, and I do hope you all enjoy the last of this!

**vi.**

Mocha. Triple shot peppermint mocha, whole milk, whipped cream, no chocolate syrup.

Tony thinks it is possibly the vilest crime committed to perfectly good coffee he’s ever encountered, topping even Pepper’s preferred caramel macchiato.

It is also Loki’s favourite.

(Hey, someone was going to have to start picking up coffee for the weekly team meeting.)

It’s fucking disgusting--too sweet, too chocolate, too _not_ coffee (seriously).

Tony drinks it anyway.

(It’s not like it means anything; he’s just making sure the baristas don’t forget Loki’s order before he gets back from Tuscany.)

Chocolate, itself, is kind of a problem.

(The smell of it. Not quite right, but close. Tony’s never going to get that smell out of his head.)

***

_Of course_ the barista asked how Loki was doing.

Tony said fine, because everyone knows fine doesn’t mean _well_ , just _alive_.

(Tony still wants to pat himself on the back for not saying _how the fuck should I know?_ because Loki’s been gone a month and hasn’t said a single word.)

***

For the most part, he works. He turns the music up as loud as he can, because fuck if he’s moping about anything (there’s nothing to mope about, Loki was just flirting, whatever the fuck they might have had? definitely _not_ a thing)(especially not now).

He ends up turning the music down. Marginally. (Like Loki’s going to walk in and comment about how he must be going deaf in his old age, like Loki always does, just like Loki always brings some third rate tablet or off brand laptop when he wants Tony’s attention--because the asshole _knows_ Tony can’t leave second rate well enough alone.)

No one walks in, and Tony pretends not to notice.

***

(It’s like a hole in his chest; he’d know what it feels like anywhere, considering. This is like that, only more sentimental poetical humanities bullshit and less hard science actual hole in the chest.

He hates it.)

***

Tony does _not_ take it personally when Loki sends everyone on the team presents except for him.

Absolutely.

“Why is he sending you _entire outfits_?” he asks Natasha. “You _have_ clothes, I’ve seen you wear them.”

“They weren’t mine,” Natasha says. “Some of us don’t have endless bank accounts.” She’s admiring the pale green sundress she just unwrapped--it’s all flowy and gauzy and it has a bias cut hem. There are sandals and jewelry already laid out on the counter, a matching lily hairpin. There’s a small pile of boxes next to her, and though Tony didn’t see her open those, he knows they all have similarly put together outfits in them.

Right. Tony should have known about the (lack of) clothes, but to be fair he’s never stepped foot in Natasha’s closet (massive, to accommodate all the spy clothes he thought she’d have) since her floor was finished. Better question--why does Loki know that? Why does Loki know what Natasha would wear?

Why is Loki sending _Natasha_ clothes?

“Jealous, Stark?” Natasha asks. The corners of her eyes crinkle, of course _she’s_ amused. She just got an entire fucking wardrobe delivered without having to do any work.

“No,” Tony says.

***

“You know he’s never bought any of us anything?”

“What the fuck are you doing here? Jarvis, why is he here?”

“I mean it, he hasn’t. Least not before this whole mess,” Clint says like Tony isn’t thinking about throwing a wrench at him. “Though you need to tell him thanks for new lenses, they’re really nice. Way more expensive than I could afford on my SHIELD paycheck.”

“Get out before you start molting,” Tony says, annoyed. “You tell him if you’re so grateful, I’m not the only one with his number.”

Clint just stares at him for a second, then crosses his arms like he’s actually _disappointed_ in Tony. It’s a fairly good impression of Steve, for that matter.

 “You have to be one of the least observant people I know. You know I’m going to owe Bruce like fifty bucks now? Okay, _genius_ , let me spell it out for you.”

“Get spelling, bee.”

“Loki never bought any of us anything. Just you, always buying you those stupid gadgets that you leave laying around for the rest of us to step on when you get bored. He’s never even bought us coffee, he always made someone else come with to pay for them. He doesn’t touch us. He touches you. _You’re the reason he’s here_. Hell, you’re the reason he’ll come back. Maybe you didn’t notice, but _Loki_ has. Why the fuck do you think he’s suddenly showering us with gifts?”

“He’s not getting me anything,” Tony points out, but even _he_ thinks he sounds petulant.

“Because he doesn’t know where he fits anymore, and he’s got even less of an idea when it comes to you! You two never figured it the fuck out. We’ve been betting how long it’ll take before one of you finally makes a move since he showed up. He’s been yours from day one, and you’ve been his. Don’t even act like you’re not--you know just as well as me that lack of boning doesn’t make it less true.”

Tony rubs his face with his hands. He can’t deal with these people. Why did he ever think living with them would be a good idea?

“Why the fuck are you still here?” Tony asks when he takes his hands away and opens his eyes to find Clint still sitting on one of the workbenches.

Clint shrugs.

“As much as I love seeing you wallow in the emotional angst, Steve really is like two seconds from just hauling you out and making you do charity work with him as a distraction.”

“Oh god.”

“I’m just saying, maybe you should try talking to Loki. I’ll make sure to get Steve off your back if you do.”

“Deal.”

***

Tony doesn’t do talking--rather, Tony doesn’t do talking about _feelings_. Besides, Loki is totally going to talk to Tony when he’s ready. Tony calling first is just… _clingy_.

Tony isn’t clingy.

When he gets a phone call about the second spending spree that he’s definitely not in Tuscany for, he gets an idea. He’ll just send Loki a new copy of the credit card, with both their names on it. That’s exactly like talking to Loki--Loki’s great at reading between the lines.

(Plausible deniability--it’s just a credit card, fewer questions from the bank, Tony doesn’t mean anything by it, and he’s _certainly_ not suggesting anything.)

It’s just like talking.

(Really.)

***

Tony knows exactly when Loki’s signed for the credit card.

(He just happened to look and see it had been delivered. He’s not obsessing. That’s for things getting delivered to _himself_.)

Because Loki getting the mailer doesn’t mean anything (really), Tony goes about his day like nothing at all is different. It’s not like he expects Loki to open it right away. Or even call. Loki is practical, he’ll understand exactly why Tony sent the new card, so there isn’t actually anything to talk about for that matter.

He takes his phone with him to a meeting at four, because meetings are dull and he’s going to need a distraction.

Mistake.

“Come on, it’s not like Steve,” his phone buzzes, and he reflexively glances down at it (Loki _, yes_ ), swiping his thumb to look at the message , “can actually…”

Tony is sure that everyone in the room except him sees the exact moment his brain short circuits--because that? _That is definitely a picture of a dildo_. Or a vibrator. Might be a vibrator. And it’s _slick_.

Tony is about 99.9% certain that it’s not lube either.

He’s still trying to stop picturing what led it to be slick ( _fuck_ ) when a second message shows up.

_Hows it compare_

“Tony?”

“Um.” He glances up. Wow. So this is what utter embarrassment feels like, because everyone on the team is looking at him, and so’s Fury.

“Care to share with the class, Stark?” Fury asks.

“Gotta go,” Tony says, and bolts before anyone can stop him.

***

The next hour is a lesson in sexual frustration the likes Tony hasn’t dealt with since puberty. Loki is both drunk and in heat--that’s the only explanation Tony can think of for the texts (picture and otherwise and _he did not need the selfie of a sweaty and sex flushed Loki with his free hand--_ ) and the shit spelling.

Let it never be said Tony Stark lacks self control.

Because he _doesn’t_ immediately fly out to Tuscany. Because he _doesn’t_ call Loki despite wanting to hear him like this. Because he _doesn’t_ palm himself or jerk off _never mind_ how hard he is.

Tony is not taking advantage of this. Loki’s in heat, he’s going to treat it exactly like any time he’s dealt with an O whose heat started early--disengage and, if that doesn’t work, distract.

(Even if he really, _really_ wants to treat it differently--he’s not an animal.)

He _tries_ to discourage Loki by not replying to the quickly growing mass of texts (Tony’s getting a fairly good idea of how many toys Loki has, _Jesus_ ). He deletes the pictures about as soon as they arrive instead of look at them, and once he’s safely in the lab he has Jarvis filter for them so he doesn’t even have that to deal with.

(Well. Other than his mind helpfully reminding him of what he _did_ see, before he put two and two together and realized _yes_ , Loki really _was_ going to keep this up.)

Ignoring doesn’t work, or doesn’t give any sign that it will, so Tony goes for changing the subject. Some Os get talky during heat.

(Tony can’t say he’s _surprised_ Loki’s talky between peaks.)

That works. Mostly. Tony, for his part, is much more comfortable asking about the materials Loki’s toys are made of--lets the engineer in him start ticking so instead of wishing he were there and trying to concentrate on anything besides his hardon, he’s thinking about manufacture and construction and _safe_ things that keep him from taking advantage. Loki, at least, seems content to badly mangle text in trying to answer questions, too far gone to remember why he’d texted in the first place.

Eventually, Loki gets bored ( _bored,_ that’s one word for it). Tony keeps playing with schematics, just switching to electronics instead of the slew of toys he and Loki had been talking about.

He almost feels… _peaceful_.

(Funny, considering how this might ruin whatever was left between them.)

***

Except it doesn’t.

Tony has no idea what to make of it. No idea what to make of the sudden deluge of second-rate electronics that means Loki was _clearly_ buying them when he went out to get everyone else’s things.

It’s like he admitted something, and Tony’s nearly ready to chase his own metaphorical tail just to figure out _what_.

"See?" Clint says, smug. "Talking isnt so bad."

Tony takes the high road and benches the plans to trap all the vents.

In fact, he might even say he's doing pretty good with Loki. The gifts feel like an all clear from Loki (even if Tony still is trying to figure out what he did to make it okay for Loki to 'talk' to him again). He still feels good.

Hell, Loki even texts him sometimes.

Then Natasha's late to a team meeting.

Weird, by itself, but she comes in with coffee and a shopping bag stuffed to the brim, sits down, and crosses her legs. Everyone stares at her.

She glances at them, eyebrow raised.

"Did I interrupt something?" she asks.

"What's with the bag?" Tony asks, just as Clint says, "Who are you and where is Natasha?"

"Where were you?" Steve asks, because someone has to ask the obvious question.

"Oh," Natasha says, widening her eyes in surprise, and Tony _knows_ he isn't going to like whatever she says next, he _never_ does when she gets that faux shock look, "I had to go pick Loki up from the airport. Did he not tell any of you? I wondered where you all were,” and no, no, Tony _really doesn’t like this_.

“And you forgot to mention that,” Steve says. He doesn’t sound convinced; smart man, Tony isn’t convinced, Tony is see-sawing between furious and confused and _hurt_ \--what does she _mean_ Loki’s back, more, why didn’t Loki _tell_ anyone? Besides Natasha?

The fucker planned this. With Natasha. Because Natasha doesn’t just _forget_ to mention plans, and he _would_.

“Problem, Stark?” she asks, smiling sweetly.

***

Tony makes it until it’s dark out before he shows up at Loki’s apartment, entirely sober, still fuming that Loki didn’t tell _him_ that he was coming back.

(Not that Loki had—

No, Loki totally should have told Tony. Things were (sort of) _good_ again.

Tony pounds on the door, but he keeps himself from yelling. Just mutters under his breath about how stupid Loki is, he thought things were alright, and _why didn’t Loki say something_. He’s about to start knocking again, eyes taking in the door and figuring out where the best place to hit it to break it in might be, when he hears the lock, muffled indistinct grumbles—

And there’s Loki.

He’s rumpled, his hair is tied up but just barely too short to stay put, little fly aways wisping at his neck, a too large sweatshirt hanging off his shoulder, sweatpants to match. Rich scent of not-quite chocolate, shallower one of vanilla (soap), a low dark musk beneath all of that. He’s blinking at Tony, bleary, barely awake; Tony takes it all in as he sweeps his eyes up, opens his mouth to say something, and meets Loki’s eyes—

_home_.

He can’t remember why he was angry. He’s rooted, grounded in smell and green--brilliant and sharp, like… like everything is just… _perfect_.

(Like he fits)

( _fuck_ )

“Loki,” Tony says, reverent, awed without meaning to be.

(fuck fuck, retreat, bad idea, _stupid_ —)

Loki blinks, then slams the door in Tony’s face.

Tony just stands there.

( _Move_ , perfect moment for an exit, he doesn’t _do_ talking, especially not emotional talking, but…)

(Just this once; if Tony didn’t fuck up before maybe, _just maybe_ , he won’t fuck this up either.)

“Loki!”

“ _Go away!_ ”

Tony isn’t that great at picking up emotions muffled through a door (or ever); even so Loki sounds panicked.

But he’s not in heat, not even close--Tony knows that smell--and just _maybe_ …

“Loki, I’m not leaving, come on, it’s cold out here, you’re not an idiot, you knew—”

“Then freeze, I’m not--”

“Loki,” Tony says, but Loki doesn’t say anything. Tony presses his palm to the door. Fuck. He’s not the only one who was blind-sided, was he? “Loki,” he repeats. He chews his lip. Tony Stark doesn’t do emotions, doesn’t do talking. So far, nonverbal has worked _fine_.

But he’s here, even if his sense of self-preservation is telling him to leave.

“Hey, you listening?”

Silence. Tony takes it as a yes.

“Just…” he pauses, eyes searching over the door. “Just… welcome home.”

The door creaks open, just a little, and Tony steps back. Loki doesn’t open it all the way this time, just stares at Tony--face blank, blank as it was the first time Tony pushed that stray strand of hair behind Loki’s ear.

Tony smiles at him. Tries to smile; it hurts, even just smiling with the corner of his mouth. He should have left when he had the chance.

“I missed you,” Tony tells him. He lets himself meet Loki’s eyes again--green and home, he’s not ever going to get that association out of his head ( _to think he nearly lost_ —)

Loki hesitates a moment, then reaches out and grabs Tony by the wrist. His grip is loose, it’d be easy for Tony to break free of it, but when Loki tugs, Tony follows, trying not to think how utterly _terrifying_ this is. Worse than any other situation he’s been in by half.

(He’s never--he’s fit, but not like this, never _needed_ someone as desperately as he needs Loki, now.)

“Were you asleep?” Tony asks as Loki closes the door, looking around the apartment. He knew Loki had it (obviously), but he’s never seen it before. It’s… cluttered, cluttered the way Tony’s lab is, he’s sure Loki knows exactly where everything is, heavy curtain over the front window and furniture a mishmash of things probably gotten over the years. Entirely at odds at how Loki presents himself. He turns to look at Loki again. Loki has his arms crossed over his chest; he's made an attempt at pulling the stretched out neck of the sweatshirt up, but it’s already sliding back down. It leaves the pale expanse of his neck bare, wisps of black hair stark against it--Tony forces himself to look up at Loki’s face before he can make this any more awkward than it already is. “You were.”

“Why are you here?” Loki asks.

“I’m not repeating myself,” Tony says. One of Loki’s brows goes up.

“You actually—”

“Meant it? Yes.” Tony chuckles. “Don’t know why I told you.”

Loki swallows, looking away. He looks small, smells… unsure, maybe. Tony doesn’t know, but he wants to.

“Hey.” He risks stepping closer to Loki, risks sliding a hand along Loki’s arms, risks tilting Loki’s face towards his with a hand. Start small, little, ease into whatever the fuck they are and both are finally admitting. (Fuck, everything feels massive right now anyway, small at least won’t crush him under the weight.) “Why don’t we go back to bed?”

Loki eyes Tony through his lashes, face still again, then he breathes out in a rush as he leans into Tony’s touch.

***

Awkward--they’re both awkward. Tony looks up as he slides his shoes off next to where he’s ditched his coat and catches Loki staring, eyes darting away to look anywhere else in the room, arms still folded over his chest.

(He’s never been so happy to feel so out of place in his life.)

“Come on,” Tony says; this time _he_ grabs Loki’s wrist, rubbing his thumb on the thin skin of Loki’s pulse, and tugs. He smiles, steps backwards towards the bed (because awkward or not, Tony knows beds, knows bedrooms, knows _this_ situation (even if not in this context)); keeps his hand around Loki’s wrist but doesn’t do more than exert slight pressure, giving Loki the room and ability to stay put if he wants. Loki doesn’t move his feet, but he lets his arm extend, and Tony laughs, nervousness easing, because it’s so _Loki_ to both give and not give at all. “Come on,” Tony says again, and takes another step back though it will put him too far away to keep his grip if Loki doesn’t follow.

Loki’s eyes slip down to where Tony’s hand is on his skin, and follows a step. A second. Tony keeps backing up until his knees hit the edge of the bed and he sits down--he lets himself just _look_ at Loki where he’s stopped.

“I won’t bite,” Tony says. “Much.” He winks.

Loki laughs; it’s shakey, uncertain, but his eyes crinkle at the corners as he closes the distance, standing between Tony’s legs, shaking his hand free so he can settle both on Tony’s shoulders.

“I was going to say,” Loki says.

“You like biting? Excellent.” Tony rubs his face into Loki’s stomach, breathing him in--there, the high almost-chocolate scent all bittersweet and mouth-watering, under that the musky base, vanilla soap, lavender (detergent?), salt tang of sweat, a high note of excitement or nervousness (maybe both). Tony doesn’t know, there’s more there to try and map. Feels like he could spend all day just figuring out the scent of him, but pushes on, edging the tips of his fingers under Loki’s sweatshirt to his skin.

“There’s a strong possibility,” Loki says, shivering and hands tightening on Tony’s shoulders as Tony slides his hands next to Loki’s spine. “Lack of test data to know for certain.” Tony moves his head enough so he can look up at Loki; Loki’s staring at him like there’s nothing else that exists, awe and confusion and a little want, sharp contrast against how steady he’s keeping his voice, and Tony presses his fingertips into Loki’s skin for a moment, just holding him.

“We don’t ha—”

“Natasha taught me how to break your collarbone,” Loki interrupts, eyes narrowing.

“So we’re definitely testing biting,” Tony says, letting his smirk get a little toothy as he nips Loki’s belly. Well, more sweatshirt, but Loki’s jumping back like it’s skin Tony’s nipping; Tony applies pressure to Loki’s back, holding him, watching him out of his peripheral. “Any other requests?” he asks as he rubs from Loki’s back to his waist with one hand, pushing the sweatshirt up--for a moment, he just stares at the slight curve of Loki’s hip before it slides under the low-riding sweatpants (definitely not alpha hips), the ripple of muscle tensing beneath the skin.

(There’s another smell, now--warm, wet, almost floral--and Tony has to choke back a groan, shifting to ease the pressure of his pants, because Loki’s arousal still smells as sweet as he remembers, as mouth-watering, even if now it lacks the hothouse quality Loki’s heat gave it before.)

Tony presses a kiss to the inside curve of Loki’s hip thoughtlessly, closing his eyes, trails a string along the bone. Loki goes still, fingers digging into Tony’s shoulders, and for a moment Tony worries he’s fucked up, starts to pull away--then Loki lets out a breathy little whine from the back of his throat, a hand grabbing Tony’s hair. Tony smiles and runs the tip of his nose back up the curve, leaning back so he can look up at Loki.

(That look again, awe and confusion, but more want, so much more want, near _raw_ —)

“Come on,” Tony says, sliding back further on the bed; he nearly falls over as Loki crawls into his lap, tangle of limbs and Loki’s so fucking _tall_ ; Tony can’t help laughing, grabbing Loki to keep from tipping backwards even as Loki’s cheeks stain red.

(The tips of his ears--with his hair tied up--Tony had no idea the tips of Loki’s ears went red, it’s—

“What?” Loki snaps, shoulders tight.

“You’re hair does the thing,” Tony says. That’s not a lie, even if it’s not what he’s staring at right until it is, the words reminding him to look a little down and yes--still wisps of hair that managed to escape licking at Loki’s throat and Tony’s _always_ had a thing for throats nevermind how stereotypically alpha it is.

“What _thing_?”

“This,” Tony says, gently rubbing his fingers over a wisp, where the hair joins neck; Loki goes boneless (Tony wraps an arm around his waist to keep him upright), lids drooping as his eyes roll up, lips parting with a soft whine and unconscious hip roll. “Oh,” Tony breathes (half-smothered under the weight of--this isn’t his first, he’s slept with dozens of people, but suddenly he can’t remember any of them, fingertips following the line of Loki’s throat, Loki’s fingers caught loose in Tony’s shirt as he gives soft, breathy whines, grinding against his lap, and Tony could get off on just this and be perfectly content).

“Anywhere else I should…” Tony trails off, because he doesn’t want to _ask_ , he wants to find all the places that make Loki go lax himself, this isn’t--this isn’t like anyone else. This is _Loki_.

He has _time_.

Loki opens his eyes, lips still parted, blinking dazed and all Tony wants is to keep him this way, half-worship and all possessive.

“Tony,” Loki says--his voice is low, rough. “ _Tony_.” His grip tightens, tugging at Tony’s shirt, and Tony’s all too happy to let go of Loki long enough to pull it off, undershirt quickly following; keeps getting glimpses of Loki’s skin, Loki pulling his too big sweatshirt off, but he’s got _time_ (even if he doesn’t feel like it). It’s not like it’s long before he’s got his hands on Loki’s skin again, kissing his collarbone and feeling Loki’s hum against his tongue.

“Come on,” Tony says, dragging himself backwards across the bed until his back hits the pile of pillows, trying not to knee Loki or knock him over, Loki following on hands and knees (nearly a prowl, but soft, just barely, at the edges). Loki keeps touching him, eyes on Tony’s skin, breeze light touches of scars, ghosting over his ribs, all pale skin that looks luminescent next to Tony’s tan. Tony hooks a leg behind Loki’s knee and drags him closer-- _hurry up_ , but his tongue’s stills as Loki meets his eyes ( _everything’s going to be green this quarter, that’s it_ ). Tony doesn’t know how long they just stare at ( _drown in_ ) each other.

“I—” Loki starts, then stops, hands cupping Tony’s face. His thumb strokes along Tony’s jaw, and Tony rests back on his elbows, watching the way Loki looks at him (no one looks at him like that, but here’s Loki, proving him wrong). “I have no idea what I’m doing,” Loki says; before Tony can say _anything_ , Loki kisses him.

It’s hesitant, softer than even the way Loki touched him as they crawled into the bed. Tony doesn’t press, lets Loki figure this out (Loki’s never been shy). Loki hums (Loki hums when he’s content, Tony files that away). Tony slips his hands back to Loki’s waist, tugging, and Loki settles against him, heavy and warm, straddling one of his legs. Loki’s still sorting out Tony’s mouth, teeth grazing and tugging at his bottom lip. Tony grins, pulls Loki down as he shifts his leg—

Loki groans, sliding down Tony’s thigh most of three inches, hot and damp even through two layers of pants; claws at Tony’s skin for purchase, panting and wide eyed, trying to right himself. Tony lets him--just a little--before pulling again.

“ _Tony_ ,” Loki rasps, voice wrecked, and Tony can’t help laughing, nosing at Loki’s throat, wrapping an arm around him to keep him down. Loki gets the idea and lets his weight settle, beginning to grind against Tony’s thigh, damp soaking through both their pants. Tony watches Loki’s face (greedy)--flush riding high and brilliant red on his cheeks and ear tips even in the dim light, bottom lip caught between his teeth, eyelids drooping. Loki’s hands have found holds, nails digging into Tony’s ribs, other hand grabbing the bed frame behind Tony’s head.

“Loki,” Tony purrs back, reaching up to cradle the side of Loki’s face with one hand and Loki fucking _whimpers_ , eyes squeezing shut tight, and Tony’s utterly gone, pulling Loki’s head up, trying to get him to look, _realizing_ —”Come on, Loki, come on, _look at me_ ,” as he rubs Loki’s cheekbone. Loki’s eyes slip open, meet Tony’s, and he _whines_ \--yes, there it is, Loki’s all about sight and smell and _oh_ Tony _loves_ this, loves that _noise_. “Yes, yes, that’s it, that’s it, be loud,” and Loki’s biting his lip again, shaking his head, trying to bury his face in Tony’s shoulder, so Tony grabs his hair, yanks his head back, and bites Loki’s throat, using his free hand to grab Loki’s ass and haul him closer.

Loki _howls_ , hips rutting faster as sweet scent of his orgasm fills the room, until he’s boneless in Tony’s arms while Tony keeps pressing kisses to his throat. Even though he’s not gotten off, and probably won’t at this rate, Tony feels like he’d be perfectly content as long as he could just keep on kissing Loki’s throat.

(He’s got time.)

But eventually, eventually, his blood has settled (mostly), and damp things are starting to get cold. He rolls them both to their side, despite Loki’s murmured and half-asleep protests, peels both his and Loki’s pants off, and navigates his way to the bathroom and a washcloth. And hey, if he jerks one off while he’s alone, he’s only human and Loki is definitely mostly asleep in the other room.

He does get a different washcloth to clean Loki up with and goes back. Loki’s eyes are half open, watching him as he comes over.

“Ass,” Loki says; his voice is shot, and Tony can’t help his smirk even if it gets him punched in the arm. Loki tries to steal the washcloth, but Tony gets him pinned (enough that Loki can pretend he’s actually pinned) and cleans him himself; Loki’s otherwise being quiet, though, and when Tony glances up at him, an eyebrow cocked, Loki’s staring at him.

“I could have….” Loki trails off, licking his lips and glancing away.

Tony chuckles, leaning up to steal a kiss.

“While you _could_ have, you didn’t, and you were drooling on my shoulder.” Tony pauses.

(He’s been saying later in his head, has kept thinking there’s _time_ , but he hasn’t voiced it, and _what if…_?)

(Better now than never.)

“Anyway,” Tony says, looking back down, folding the washcloth into quarters, “we’ve got time.”

The words hang there, and Tony (almost) wishes he could take them back.

Then Loki hums ( _content_ ), grabbing hold of Tony’s wrist and tugging (lightly, so Tony could pull away if he wanted). Tony goes, catching Loki’s mouth in another kiss (this time pushing, taking the lead), and settles in Loki’s bed (their bed? no, too big, still, stay small).

He can’t sleep (strange new place), but Loki curls close and drapes closer, asleep in moments. Tony strokes a hand through his hair, watches him with a smile he wants to get rid of (but not enough to stop), and (for the first time in a long time) feels _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. I absolutely think Tony did right in regards to the pictures; anything else would have been fucking creepy. Loki wasn't in a coherent frame of mind (being both drunk and in heat) to give a coherent 'yes i want you to have these pictures.' Consent doesn't have a blurred line--Tony said as much in his chapter 2 intro. Loki's reaction when sober and sound of mind again when he realized he'd sent them just proves the point.
> 
> That bit of soapbox done, thank you ever so much for reading this, commenting, leaving kudos--all of it. The reaction to this one took me by surprise in the best way possible. 
> 
> Happy holidays and I hope you all have a wonderful New Year!


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